Tom said it best

August 29, 2009

Jeremy was gone today, and I found myself thinking about him off and on throughout the day. One memory in particular has been replaying in my mind. One hospital memory:

I needed help to shower. I couldn't do it on my own. At first it started off with me just needing help wrapping my arm so the IVs and PIC line wouldn't get wet. Jeremy followed me into the bathroom and started the water running so the temperature would be just right when I was ready to get in. He helped me pull tight the plastic sleeves I was given to cover all the tubes hanging off me. But it didn't take long for me to need more help than that. Within a matter of days my body was beginning to get heavy. I remember the first day that I noticed it. I laughed a nervous laugh, "I'm starting to look like the Michellen Man," I said to him. He laughed with me and reassured me that didn't matter. But my laughter turned to panic inside me as I realized I could no longer lift the extra weight my legs were carrying, nor could I bend my knees to step into the tub. Jeremy bent over in the anything-but-spacious bathroom, steam filling the room, sweat rolling down his face because he was fully clothed, lifted my leg and set it into the tub for me.

When it was time to dry off I called his name and he came back into the bathroom. I stood before him, naked and swollen, every inch of my skin hurting and stretching, tubes and bruises all over. And there we were, a growing family, caring for each other the best we could in the hot little hospital bathroom. Ever so gently he took a towel and dried me off. It was a physical act, a gentle act, an act of love. That physical act of love and intimacy was precious to me, as precious as any love we've made.

Every day he helped me with my shower. It was the one "activity" that I still participated in, though it exhausted me and was usually followed by a nap. I won't ever forget the feel of the hot water on my skin, running through my hair. Everything hurt, but the water, oh the water soothed me.

As I was thinking about this today, I once again felt blessed. I am blessed to have been given such a gift of love. I thought about Jeremy and my future and about growing old together. I love the idea of taking care of each other in these physical, tangible ways as we age. These bodies of ours are going to break down on us slowly but surely (please God, let it happen slowly!). But I feel secure in knowing that those breakdowns will be met with tenderness by my love. It's a gift I tell you. A gift. And I'm thankful.

Till the wheels come off . . .